Saturday, January 26, 2013

In O'Neill's, First Ave.

Bobby met Paula for a beer in a dive off First Avenue.It was O’Neill’s, named for the great Eugene,which made tourists think it was a classy literary jointthat served hootch and sands, though it fed the hungryfree rather than let them disappear into oblivionor go into the life, the only one that paid immediately.Paula had come from visiting Myra down the street.Myra was playing Dexter Gordon’s Body and Soulon the stereo Doug had used as his textbook, his pony,his gutcheck machine. Myra damn well knew Bobbycherished the piece and would lead Paula to the storyof what Myra needed to know to keep a man alive.The story was anything but a primer to resurrecta love affair. Paula told Bobby she didn’t sugar overa thing. He listened intently. He liked her neck’s archand the way it seemed to curve over her ample breastswhen she leaned into her rap. It’s your almond eyes,he said. It’s your horny cock, she smiled, you devil.He sat quietly taking her in through the portals of both eyes. She looked at him as she went on tellingabout visiting Myra, who was translating Montale,whom Bobby thought he would never unriddle,the poet a pure soul with all but ordinary desires.He thought of floycealexander loving Pavese, and why.floycealexander came from a farming communityover the mountains. He had that in common withPavese’s Piedmont, and the city girls he saw twicehe began to love, or so he said. floycealexanderwas the last romantic, not a Byron but a Shelleywhose Ozymandias lay in a desert inside a valley.Paula asked Bobby if he’d like to go for a strolldown to the pier, see what was on sale at the marketand have a taste of the oysters of the day at Ivar’s.She loved to see the totem poles. She loved them all,the Y at Third and Yesler, the downbeat cabaretswhere she and Bobby had danced after closing time.(26 January 2013)copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander